


your slaughterhouse, your killing floor

by crownedcarl



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: ... enjoy, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Violence, Gen, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, consider this a road trip!au rolled into a serial killer!au rolled into a love story, rick considers himself more of a vigilante and negan's just here for the thrill of it, there's ~smut for those of you that are as depraved as me, this fic is surprisingly light-hearted in some places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: “You and me,” Negan will say, on a day where the sky is blue and the sun is shining, Rick’s tanned face laughing at him from his sprawl in the backseat, “You and me, we’re gonna go out guns fucking blazing."





	your slaughterhouse, your killing floor

**Author's Note:**

> quick and dirty serial killer au oneshot for y'all, because apparently my thirst for filth has not yet been sated. title credit goes to richard siken. ( ᐛ )و i'd appreciate any and all constructive criticism on this fic!

Negan is driving, one hand on the steering wheel.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Rick is dead to the world; sunglasses low on his nose, curls wild around his face, his mouth parted in a dreamless sleep. After all this time, Negan knows his tells. Rick’s face is too damn peaceful for him to be dreaming about anything, and his slack jaw and slowly rising chest tells Negan that Rick’s got another couple miles of contentment to look forward to.

There’s no fun in that, though. Negan inches the car towards the nearest rest stop before slamming the brakes harshly, and Rick is jerked forward and caught by his seatbelt as he gasps, hands frantically searching the car for purchase before he realizes that there’s been no accident, glaring at Negan with sleep-heavy eyes.

“Morning, sunshine,” Negan grins, watching as Rick carefully peels away his t-shirt where it’s clinging to his stomach with sweat. “Sweet dreams?”

“Until you interrupted me,” Rick rasps, rolling down his window, and Negan catches his tongue between his teeth as he laughs lowly, fishing a pack of Camels out of the glove compartment and merrily blowing smoke in Rick’s face as he lights up and takes the first drag.

He knows Rick thinks it’s disgusting, and that’s partly why Negan hasn’t quit, yet. Riling Rick up is the one thing he can count on, these days, and he does it with glee. “What’s the matter, baby?” Negan laughs, peering at Rick from over his own aviators. “‘m I bothering you?”

Shaking his head, Rick mutters “Every day of my life,” and pops open the car door, sighing softly as he steps out and stretches his legs. Blinking against the harsh sunshine, he asks “Where are we?”

Shrugging, Negan takes a guess. “Virginia, probably,” he replies, because when the two of them set out to do this, they hadn’t exactly made a solid plan. Driving along the highway seems as good a method as any, Negan had argued, and Rick had come along, albeit reluctantly. Negan knows you can’t convince a guy like Rick to do anything he doesn’t want to, which means Rick’s attitude is just that - attitude. He’s not going anywhere.

The convenience store is open, and Rick inclines his head towards the ramshackle little place, raising his eyebrows at Negan. “No, thanks,” he tells Rick, raising a half-empty bottle of water in mock-triumph. “I’m all set. Get your fuckin’ Diet Pepsi and let’s go, already. We’re wasting daylight.”

Rick mutters something under his breath, then gets to walking. Negan steps out of the car, staring down the stuttering kid by the pumps who tries to inform him that _it’s dangerous to smoke around gas pumps, s-sir, and it’s illegal,_ and when the guy finally tucks his tail between his legs and slinks inside, Negan flicks what remains of his cigarette butt into a puddle of what he _sincerely_ hopes is water.

(It is. He kind of wanted to know what would happen if it _wasn’t,_ though.)

He fills up the tank, hollering “Actually, get me a coffee,” when Rick emerges through the door and then backtracks with a heavy sigh, because Rick is too damn adorable when he gets his panties in a twist, and Negan can’t help himself, sometimes. Chuckling, he finishes up at the pump and hauls himself back into the car, and while Rick is still preoccupied, Negan takes a moment to breathe.

Yesterday was rough. Shit, when it’s rough for _him,_ that’s a sign that he’s got to slow down, but he can’t, not yet, not until they’ve put some more highway between them and the motel room miles and miles away. He knows Rick is feeling it, too; the tension, electric and thick between them. He wonders who’s going to crack, first.

Rick wanders back with a bottle of water, two bagels, two cups of coffee and a chocolate bar. “Bon appetit,” he says dryly, sliding in beside Negan and letting them sip their coffee in companionable silence.

It doesn’t last. Rick’s damn mouth is working overtime, lately, but he doesn’t start scolding Negan or trying to change his mind. When he licks his lips and exhales, all he says is “We should stop somewhere, tonight. Need a bed to sleep in.”

Snorting, Negan replies _“You_ need a bed to sleep in? Your 5’8 ass needs a break more than I do, all cramped and cooped up in this fucking car?”

And, slowly, Rick tilts his head back, glancing at Negan. “It ain’t about the bed,” he says, and Negan’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

He should’ve known. Rick is too soft for this and he’s always going to be too damn soft, but doing this alone-? There’s no way.

(Doing this alone means getting caught, and it means long stretches of silence, of nearly losing his damn mind like he almost did a year ago, and what then? What about all the work that’s still left?)

Rick’s not going to leave, not unless Negan makes him. “Alright, princess,” he grumbles, not bothering to check for any cars blocking the way as he starts backing up, heading towards the highway. “I’ll get you a fucking bed.”

-

Rick was a cop, before. It’s no surprise to Negan that he doesn’t upchuck violently, after that first time. Guy’s bound to have seen his fair share of dead bodies.

“Why did you-?” Rick asks, and he has the nerve to actually sound _bewildered_ , as if he didn’t notice the way the guy was creeping up on the barely-legal girl at the bar, and then in the alley. He’s bound to have seen the signs, and Negan shrugs, because if Rick can’t see why, then maybe he shouldn’t be here.

He never answers. Negan cleans Lucille, slow and steady until she’s pristine again, gleaming under the neon lights of the motel. The brains on the floor, though, that’s another story, and it sure as hell isn’t his mess to clean up.

“I got a problem with rapists,” Negan finally says, hours later, out on the road as Rick curls up in the passenger seat and stares blankly at the taillights of other cars passing them by. “He had it coming.”

“He never touched her,” Rick counters, and then he winces, holding a hand up before Negan can explode. “I know, I _know._ He would’ve, eventually. Maybe not then and there, but…”

Sharply, Negan mutters “Exactly my fucking point. No more pussyfooting around it. We do this my way, or you’re welcome to go home.”

-

Fucking _grief support group,_ that’s where it all starts.

Negan’s been coming on and off for about four months, and there are always new faces, always people showing up looking lost and broken. The people that leave don’t come back, and Negan figures at least some of them must’ve offed themselves because the pain was too much, and he tells the therapist he thinks that’s straight-up bullshit.

A woman with graying hair tells him that’s an offensive and horrible thing to say, after Negan claims that “Anyone weak enough to kill themselves didn’t deserve to live in the first place.”

Another woman says “He’s in shock, he’s hurting, we’re all entitled to our feelings-” and he rolls his eyes and says “Hey, lady, fuck off. I’m _fine.”_

Maybe not, maybe he’s not fucking fine at all, but he’s not the same empty shell all these assholes have turned into. For months, he keeps going, looking for something he can’t name, and then Rick Grimes sits down across from him in the pathetic circle-jerk of grief they’ve got going on and plainly states _my best friend murdered my wife and kids. That’s all the sharing I feel like doing today._

And, _goddamn_ the guy has balls. Negan can work with that.

-

Out on the road, it starts to rain.

“Change the station,” Rick groans, lounging back with his feet propped up on the dashboard. Negan pinches his ankle, and laughs at the way he very nearly gets a goddamn boot to the face for it.

“Don’t you know that’s how accidents happen?” he grins, and then changes the station; from static, to pop, to blues. Rick’s got decent taste in music, generally, and Negan doesn’t mind the soft, mellow tune drifting through the speakers.

“Anywhere special in mind?” Rick asks him, “Or are we just passin’ through?”

Passing through - that’s a nice notion, one that Negan’s considered before. To drift, never settling anywhere, it’s got a romance to it that he’s always been drawn to, but he shakes his head, because wherever they go, they won’t just be passing through. They’ll be leaving a trail.

Rick’s got to know that, too. All that law enforcement training can’t have gone to waste. He’s got to fucking know that this thing they’re doing isn’t sustainable, that their luck is going to run out, and then what?

(“You and me,” Negan will say, on a day where the sky is blue and the sun is shining, Rick’s tanned face laughing at him from his sprawl in the backseat, “You and me, we’re gonna go out guns fucking _blazing,_ Thelma and Louise style.”

And Rick, unquestioning and unbothered by Negan’s conviction that the end will catch up with them will say, in response, “You _do_ remember they kiss before the end, don’t you?” and Negan will laugh, clap Rick on the back, and whisper “That too, baby. We’ll do that, too.”)

He must’ve been lost in his thoughts, because Rick’s snapping his fingers in front of Negan’s face and shouting “Eyes on the _fucking_ road!” as Negan swerves abruptly to avoid careening into a goddamn truck.

“-death wish, or something?”

Rick’s still talking.

“Fuck, take a damn breath, would you?” Negan snaps, tensing when Rick curls long fingers around his wrist and tugs. He’s expecting a goddamn fistfight, now, after Rick’s finished yelling at him about _safety_ and _regulations_ and _keeping his head on straight,_ but all Rick says is “We’re switching, get some fucking rest,” and unceremoniously opens the driver’s side door to not-so-gently push Negan out of the car.

Hell. Negan was on board with a partner, but having someone give a shit about him, about his health and general well-being-? He didn’t sign up for that. Couldn’t, after -

 _Fuck,_ his throat is dry, and Rick basically manhandles him into the backseat where Negan can stretch out, and it’s so damn surreal to be _mothered_ that Negan can’t help but laugh, chortling the whole time that Rick’s getting in front of the wheel and turning back onto the highway.

“You’re running on empty,” Rick tells him, miles and miles away from where Negan had his little breakdown. “We’re staying somewhere tonight. Don’t fucking argue.”

“You know it turns me on when you curse,” Negan grins, “Gets me all _hot_ and anticipatin’.”

Rick’s not smiling, but there’s a glint in his eyes that Negan’s seen, before. “Anticipate it’ll be just you and your hand tonight,” he mutters.

Still. He ducks his head, fighting a smile, when Negan sighs “Baby, I love when you’re cruel to me.”

-

Grief support group is exactly what Negan thought it’d be: a bunch of bullshit.

He doesn’t buy in. He doesn’t listen when the counselor is talking about the _stages of grief_ and how to _heal_ and _move on_ and how it’s a _healthy thing to cry, a natural release,_ because Negan hasn’t shed a damn tear in over two years and he’s not about to start now.

He’s getting himself a glass of water, preparing to tear the hell out of here and never come back, when there’s a quiet voice by his shoulder. “You mind?” the new guy asks, shuffling past Negan to get a cup of tea.

His hands are shaking, but the guy’s face is steel. “Not at all,” Negan mutters, moving out of the way, but standing close enough to unnerve the newbie. “Go right the fuck ahead.”

After hearing about what happened to this poor bastard, Negan’s mind has started drifting, unfettered after so many goddamn stories of senseless death, husbands and wives and children and parents - the shit never ends, does it?

His Lucille passed quietly, but that doesn’t mean it was peaceful. It means she was so fucking far gone she slipped away, like a little girl playing hide and seek. His Lucille, gone, the world ending not with a bang, but with a whimper.

“I can feel you staring,” someone says, and Negan blinks himself back to the present, to the reality of the haggard man standing beside him, wearing a frown. “Ask. I know you want to.”

Oh, he’s got no idea, and after he’s practically _dared_ Negan to ask-?

“Your best friend,” Negan starts, then grins. “Sorry, _former_ best friend...after he offed your missus and the kids, what did you do?”

He doesn’t get an answer straight away. The group is assembling again, and Negan’s eyebrows damn near escape his fucking face as the guy asserts “I slit his throat and watched him bleed out,” and then calmly finds his seat again.

-

(At the end of the day, the two of them never make it to the Grand Canyon.)

-

Negan’s dozing, listening to the faucet running in the bathroom. Rick’s cleaning up from the long days on the road, and Negan’s more than content to lay there and imagine that this is a life he could’ve had, something simple, something attainable: going on a road-trip with a buddy, seeing all the sights the land has to offer, but this isn’t a trip for pleasure, and Rick’s not his fucking _buddy._

Rick’s something else entirely.

“You don’t have to be here,” Negan tells him, and Rick stares him down, because Negan reminds him daily that if he wanted, Rick could go home and have a life. Another life, yeah, without his wife and his kids and his partner, but a life.

“I do,” Rick counters quietly, settling on the twin bed next to Negan’s. He rolls to his side, scratching at the beard he hasn’t had the heart to shave off, yet. “You wouldn’t make it without me.”

And ain’t that the painful crux of it - the fact that Negan would be screwed without Rick’s know-how, and that Rick wouldn’t have the balls to do this by himself? They’ve got the parts to complete each other, and they’re all but useless apart.

“Yeah,” Negan agrees, “I’d be fucking lost without you,” and it comes painfully close to the other truth, the nameless truth. Rick seems to sense it, too, because he slowly moves to roll over and give Negan his back; unlike other nights, this isn’t an invitation.

Quietly, Rick whispers “Go to sleep,” and Negan stares at the even rise and fall of Rick’s back until the room is enveloped in darkness.

-

Negan invites Rick over for a drink two weeks into knowing the guy.

He’s risking a lot on a flimsy fucking proposal, and Rick’s more likely to arrest him than to go along with it, but after the whiskey and the cookout, Negan sits Rick down on his couch and says “I want to do what you did. You in?”

And Rick, bless his fucking _heart,_ blinks at Negan like he doesn’t understand. “Do what?” he asks carefully, setting aside his drink and staring Negan down.

Licking his lips, Negan goes on. “Your friend,” he clarifies. “He had that shit coming, but what about the others like him, huh? We gonna let’em walk?”

He can tell the exact moment that Rick understands.

“Why, though?” he asks Negan, which is a better reaction than he had dared to hope for. It would’ve been a shame, having to gut Rick in his own living room if things turned south. “Your wife, she had cancer. What’s your stake in this?”

Negan pins him with a sharp stare. “Excuse the fuck out of me for wanting to make the world a better place, _prick,”_ and doesn’t understand it one bit when Rick starts to laugh.

He laughs so damn hard he almost upends himself on the couch, then finally sucks in huge lungfuls of air. “Why not,” Rick says, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to Negan, and it’s...eerie as shit. Unsettling. It’s exactly what Negan’s been looking for. “Why the hell not,” Rick laughs, running a hand across his face.

It’s that easy; their broken parts lining up. It’s that fucking easy.

-

Rick’s still dealing with his shit - Negan gets that.

He respects it, the times Rick retreats far into himself and doesn’t say a word for hours on end, speaking only in fragments, a forlorn smile on his lips that never lasts long. Sometimes, he’ll say _me’n’Lori, we wanted to travel, we were gonna head this way,_ and sometimes, his voice goes painfully fucking soft, murmuring _Carl never got to see this,_ and all Negan can offer is a gruff _shit, man, I’m sorry,_ and beating himself up for doing so goddamn little.

Rick’s not looking for pity, but the two of them understand each other. Loss and grief, that’s one powerful way to bring people together. How lucky they had to be, Negan muses, to find each other after all the shit that went down.

Sometimes, Rick cries in his sleep.

Negan doesn’t mention it, and he doesn’t do anything about it; doesn’t crawl into bed beside Rick to hold him, or anything, but the mornings after he does his damnedest to keep Rick’s mind off of it, kicking his assholery into a whole new gear to keep Rick’s annoyance focused on him.

Sometimes, Rick thanks him for it. “Fuck off with that shit,” Negan always tells him. “It ain’t for you.”

Today, it’s overcast, and Rick suddenly says “Hey - hey. Let's stop here,” drawing Negan’s exasperated eye as he reluctantly pulls over, squinting at the sign ahead of them.

“What the fuck are we stopping for?” Negan groans, surprised at the fact that he’s met by a sharp grin. He hasn’t seen that in a while.

Rick’s stepping outside, boots landing in the mud, and Negan slowly follows. “If you need to piss, hurry up. I’m freezing my balls off.”

“Stay in the car, then,” Rick tells him, making his way carefully down the steep riverbank. “Me, I’m gonna take a dip.”

Oh, for the love of -

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Negan groans, beseeching every deity he’s ever heard of to please tell him Rick isn’t being serious, right now, because the weather is awful, the day’s been nothing short of awful, and taking a goddamn dip right now is _another_ awful idea.

Shrugging, Rick repeats “Stay in the car, then,” and right in front of Negan, he strips off his shirt.

Considering the circumstances, Negan thinks he’s acting with a lot of restraint when he shouts “Hey, Rick, if my dick turns to a fucking icicle, will you warm it up for me?” and follows Rick into the water.

-

Negan sees it coming from a mile away, that first time.

Without the luxury of a bed or a goddamn space bigger than the backseat, he and Rick make do; namely, with Rick seated snugly in Negan’s lap, his knees spread apart as wide as they can go around Negan’s hips, and Rick’s hand is working in tight, helpless motions between them, his gasping breaths muffled into Negan’s jaw.

They’ve been on the road for two weeks. Neither one of them is sleeping much, and Rick’s groaning “God, your hands are cold,” and Negan deliberately slides them lower, gripping Rick’s ass and then _squeezing_ for good measure.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he grins, catching Rick’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging. “I couldn’t hear you over all that fucking moaning.”

He’s been with men, before. Seems Rick hasn’t, judging by the shocked and frantic rocking of his hips, the way he whines when Negan’s cock nudges up deep inside of him, fracturing him from the goddamn inside. It’s exquisite.

“Cocky son of a bitch,” Rick mumbles, adjusting himself in Negan’s lap, ducking his head. He doesn’t turn away in time, though; Negan catches the pained half-grimace that paints Rick’s features tight and pinched, and Negan cradles that gritted jaw in his palm.

“Hey, now,” he says, “I want to fuck you, not tear you apart. Slow the fuck down, cowboy. We got all night.”

It’s not until later, after Rick’s gasped through his orgasm and Negan’s settled down beside him in the backseat - not until _then_ that Negan gets the truth.

“I miss her,” Rick says, as if that’s a goddamn shameful thing to admit to.

“I know,” Negan sighs, one arm draped across Rick’s shoulders. “Baby, I know,” and he’s not saying much, but to Rick, it seems to be what he needed to hear; after a moment, he quiets down, and Negan finds it within himself to slip into sleep, too, with Rick solid beside him.

-

(Here are five things that never happen to Negan:

He never tells Lucille goodbye, not when it fucking matters, and at her funeral, he’s got no words to say other than _shit, I guess you’re really gone,_ and he knows nobody’s listening but the dearly fucking departed, turned to grass.

He never moves his things out of that house. Negan lets them suffocate in dust, because it’s a hell of a lot easier than admitting defeat, and no matter what the session leader in the fucking grief support group says, he’s not refusing to move on. There’s just fuck-all to move on to, is the thing.

At that first motel, _afterwards,_ with Rick standing beside him and trembling like a leaf, Negan never says _how about that, officer, still think you’re up for this, still think you have the guts?_ and Rick doesn’t ever fucking say _no, I want out._ Despite the bloodshed and the violence, Rick doesn’t abandon him right there and then to go back to what’s left of his life.

He never discovers what Rick would feel like against him, in his sleep, both of them breathing softly in a bed big enough to hold them both. After the months they’ve spent together, after the first time he hears Rick groan breathlessly, Negan realizes that sometimes you can get so fucking close to someone you end up on the other side of them.

And, yeah - Negan never gets to see the Grand Canyon.)

-

They’re bound to make a mess, sooner or later, and one they can’t clean up. Rick’s good at the methodical aspect of it, wrapping the bodies and disposing of them. Negan wants to string them up by their goddamn balls, let the world see them for what they are, but Rick’s little murmurs of _it’s too risky, it’ll put the cops on our trail_ dissuades him, usually, but the night still turns into a mess.

Turns out a man with one arm can still be dangerous, even if Negan sliced it clean off at the shoulder, because he comes at Rick like a fucking bat out of hell, smashing a bottle of liquor against Rick’s skull and watching him topple to the floor. Negan puts him down, after that; bashes his brains in with Lucille, and then hauls Rick up off the floor and into the car. The ride back to their latest shitty motel room in a string of them is tense, but Rick doesn’t voice any complaint about his injuries.

Inside, Negan peels out of his jacket, then sees to peeling Rick out of his own. Head wounds bleed a lot, he reminds himself. He’s not gonna fucking flip out. There’s nothing to worry about.

Rick’s swaying on his feet, though, and Negan catches his arm before he falls.

“Not tonight,” Rick mutters, backing up and out of Negan’s space and, _hell,_ Negan’s more than a little offended that Rick thinks he’s seriously after some fucking ass right now, given the current state of affairs.

“No funny business,” Negan mutters, “But in case you didn’t fucking notice, shit-for-brains, you’re bleeding all over _my_ shit, so you’re gonna let me stitch you up, right the fuck now. Sit your ass down.”

All he does that night is patch Rick up, and when they sleep in the same bed, there’s a distance between them that wasn’t there, before.

-

In Oklahoma, Rick reaches a breaking point.

Negan’s been waiting for it, and Rick’s held out for a lot longer than Negan expected, but the differences between them are too fucking great, too fucking insurmountable for this to have gone on for much longer. Negan’s never been a good man, and he thinks Rick finally understands why there’s a world of difference between them.

Rick’s doing this for justice. Negan’s doing it for vengeance, and the way Rick looks at him after they leave the farmhouse just about breaks his fucking heart.

“I wanted you to _see_ it,” Negan hisses, and Rick struggles against the wall where Negan’s got him pinned. “Your way is not fucking _working!_ How many more times, Rick? How many more _fucking_ times until you realize I’m not the monster, huh?”

Maybe he went overboard, but the sorry piece of shit downstairs didn’t deserve a gentle handling. He didn’t deserve to slip away like Lucille, quiet and peaceful and unaware of what was happening; no, this situation required a rougher touch, and Negan knew all along that Rick couldn’t handle it, that he was too damn soft to do what needed doing, and still -

Still, Negan’s not letting him go. He’s practically snarling in Rick’s fucking face, livid and frustrated, because just when things were getting good, just when he was making an _impression,_ Rick spoiled his fun. Ended it with a gunshot.

“You _said,”_ Rick grits out, “That this was about justice. It ain’t. Not to you.”

“Yeah,” Negan agrees, “Not to me, but what the fuck does that matter, _officer?_ You think you’re any better than me? I know what you did to Shane-”

He crosses a line. Christ, does he _ever._

Rick’s voice is very quiet when he says “Don’t say that name. Don’t you ever say that name to me,” and Negan can’t help but push, and push _harder._

“Tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” Negan laughs, sharp and cutting. “You telling me it wasn’t a _little_ bit satisfying, killing him? You really think we’re different at all, after _that?”_

They aren’t the same, not one bit, and Rick knows it as well as Negan does, but there’s something immensely gratifying in seeing the brief flicker of fear in Rick’s eyes, the sudden shortness of breath that has him exhaling sharply right in Negan’s face.

He doesn’t expect a fight, but the way Rick goes quiet and then just _slumps_...Negan wasn’t expecting that, either.

His hands are covered in blood and gore. “Fuck you,” Rick mutters. “Fuck you.”

“You know what, Rick?”

Negan flashes his teeth. “Fuck _you.”_

It's vicious, the ensuing struggle. A dark, primal part of Negan reminds him that if Rick _really_ wanted to get loose, if he _really_ wanted to resist, he could, but he doesn't fight hard enough and it feeds something greedy in Negan, seeing Rick panting and ruined and asking for more.

There’s blood splatter on the thighs of Rick’s jeans, still warm, and Negan can almost taste it, the coppery residue behind his teeth and on his tongue. He made a fucking mess, and he’s made a mess of Rick, too, pressing him face-first against the wall and breathing harshly into his ear.

“Say no,” Negan urges, because he’ll stop if Rick wants him to, he’ll back up and away and leave Rick alone for the rest of his fucking life if Rick wants him to, but Rick doesn’t say stop.

Breathing shallowly, Rick says “Sometimes - sometimes, I almost hate you,” and Negan just about weeps against Rick’s shoulder at how heartfelt that declaration is, but it isn’t a no.

Rick’s panting in his ear, and Negan’s got his open mouth pressed to Rick’s shoulder, wanting to take a bite right out of him because Rick makes him _crazy,_ makes him reckless, makes him _want._

The word never comes. Not even when Negan’s leaving bruises in the shape of his hands on Rick’s hips, not even when he groans _wanna fucking tear you apart sometimes, you know that, Rick?_ and not even when the other confession comes, the quieter one.

_I can’t do this without you. Please._

Rick’s breath is erratic, shallow. His eyes are damp and heavy with emotion.

It isn’t a no, and Negan almost hates himself, too.

-

(After Oklahoma, Rick storms out of the car and walks away. Negan watches his silhouette gradually disappear, and then asks for a single at the front desk, numb fingers holding the key.

Rick isn’t like him. Negan, he enjoys the thrill of the kill. Enjoys the crunch of bone and splatter of brains, but Rick’s a pragmatist; he does it clean and quick, a knife to the jugular or the base of the skull, and maybe Negan went overboard this time, but the man had dead girls in his basement.

A lot of fucking dead girls.

And Negan isn’t expecting Rick to come back, because this is the end of the road. There’s too many bodies leading the way right to this motel room with the leaking faucet, and Negan’s resigned himself to the fact that he is, once again, alone.

But Rick comes back, in the morning, frantic and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to,” he breathes, and he lets Negan hold him for a long, long time. “I told them, I told them everything, I’m so fucking sorry,” and when Negan can’t seem to find the words, he whispers “It’s alright, it’s alright, we’re gonna be fuckin’ _alright.”_

In the evening, there are men with guns at the door.

Rick never gets to take him to the Grand Canyon, after all.)


End file.
